CHATEAUGAY LAKE STEAMBOAT GAZETTE CO.

Rowdy Adirondack Shatagetta on Chateaugay Lake: sea serpent gossip, wisecrackin’ guides, Shakespeare quotes gone crooked, and homegrown phyylosophy; expect folklore mischief, tall tales, and lakefront cacklin’, not polite tourism brochures or classroom seriousness.

🔊https://chateaugayoreandironmusicco.bandcamp.com/album/hoax-log-or-leviathan-a-chateaugay-lake-shatagetta 🔊

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Act I.

MORE THINGS THAN DREAMPT OF

EAST BELLMONT OVERTURE – “MORE THINGS”

(NARRATOR)
Wal, Mr. Editor, pull yer chair up close,
Ink-stained fingers, pipe full o’ ghost,
Got a yarn so bent it’ll kink yer mail,
’Bout a beeg, beeg snake with a dorsal sail.

(CHORUS O’ BRAINARDSVILLE)
More things, more things, more things, hey,
Than dreampt up down Malone way,
Heaven an’ earth an’ the Narrows in between,
We seen what we seen what we seen what we seen.

(NARRATOR)
Hamlet, he sez, with his fancy talk,
“Give it welcome, son, let the monster walk,”
Horatio goes, “Wal, that’s strange fer sure,”
Round here we just say, “Shut the door.”

(CHORUS)
O day an’ night, it’s wondrous strange,
Sea serpent cruisin’ in the boatin’ range,
Upper Lake boilin’ like a witch’s stew,
An’ the guides all swearin’ that the tale is true.

(NARRATOR)
Now I ain’t no fool fer a campfire scare,
I like my facts like my bacon—there,
But this last week, up t’ the Lake, by gee,
The whole darn parish been out t’ see.

(CHORUS)
More things, more things, more things, hey,
Than fits inside yer schoolhouse day,
Heaven and earth an’ the Shatagee pines,
Wigglin’ round yer educated lines.

(NARRATOR)
Editor wrote me, neat as starch,
“Just give a piece on the summer march,
City folk swimmin’ where the loonbird sings,
No talk o’ devils or scaly things.”

(EDITOR)
We need respecta-ble resort romance,
Parasols, picnics, them Brighton pants,
Not some critter with a theological neck
Turnin’ my travel-page into a shipwreck.

(CHORUS O’ BRAINARDSVILLE)
Too late, too late, the rumor broke,
Jumped that column like pipe smoke,
More things, more things, more things, hey,
Than fits yer polite display.

(NARRATOR)
Schoolmarm Gert from the graded room,
She sez, “Now children, don’t assume,
Nature got laws an’ she keeps ’em straight,
No room fer a monster in the graduated slate.”

(SCHOOLMARM)
I teach ye planets, I teach ye maps,
I swat ye gentle with the ruler slaps,
If snakes was hid in the Lake, my dears,
They’d be in the handbook with the volunteer years.

(KIDS’ CHORUS)
But we seen ripples like a railroad track,
Somethin’ long roll up an’ roll back,
More things, more things, under the boat,
Than fit in a copied science note.

(NARRATOR)
Parson he thumps on the book next door,
Sez, “If there’s a serpent, we seen him before,
Back in them verses near page one,
He was messin’ with folks in the orchard sun.”

(PARSON)
Could be a judgment, could be a joke,
Could be the Lord just pinchin’ our folk,
When faith gits sleepy an’ pews git thin,
He sends somethin’ wiggly t’ stir up sin.

(CHORUS)
O day an’ night, we hum an’ fuss,
Upper Lake shivers where the dawn light leans,
Laughin’ through the spruce at our magazines.

(NARRATOR)
Old timers nod with a slow, dry grin,
Sez, “We seen worse’n that slippin’ in,
Back when the forge smoked night an’ noon,
We had ghosts in the slag an’ teeth in the moon.”

(OLD TIMERS)
Saw lights walkin’ on the winter ice,
Heard the wind bargainin’ cut-rate price,
If ye think a snake is the strangest show,
Ye ain’t stayed late when the northwinds blow.

(NARRATOR)
Still, Mr. Editor, mark it well,
Circulation loves a fishy smell,
Print us a serpent with a Shakespeare quote,
Watch subscriptions rise like a bobbin’ boat.

(CHORUS O’ BRAINARDSVILLE)
More things, more things, more things, hey,
Than what the city scribes convey,
Heaven an’ earth an’ the Narrows in between,
Dancin’ in the margin of the printed scene.

(NARRATOR)
So sharpen yer pen an’ fill yer pipe,
We’ll send ye copy of the lakeside hype,
Writ in varnish, moss, an’ steam,
Half eyewitness, half daydream.

(ALL)
More things, more things, more things, hey,
Than you can grade or file away,
Heaven an’ earth an’ the Shatagee pines,
Playin’ hopscotch on yer tidy lines.

Wal, Mr. Editor, sign yer name,
Stamp that serpent into fame,
By the time this hits the depot store,
There’ll be three more humps than it had before.

(CHORUS (FADING))
More things, more things, more things, hey,
We seen what we seen what we seen, by gar,
An’ the rest rides home in a pickle jar.

JACK DAVIS FREAK-OUT – “BIGGER’N THE BOAT”

(JACK DAVIS:)
Wal I’s out by th’ Island, fog like stew,
Boat go “putt-putt,” sky all blue,
Somethin’ come up like a busted road,
Longer’n my mortgage, twice my load.

Water went hush like it bit its tongue,
Even the outboard choked an’ hung,
Coffee in the thermos turned right cold,
Hair on my neck stood up an’ sold.

(CAMPERS:)
How big, Jack? How big, Jack?
Bigger’n the boat that brought ye back?
How big, Jack? Speak plain, boy—
Big like doom or big like joy?

Bigger’n the dock at Ralph’s hotel?
Bigger’n the lies you already tell?
How big, Jack? Lay down the rule—
Bigger’n the whip on the Sunday mule?

(JACK DAVIS:)
Neck like a stovepipe, humps like logs,
Eyes like lanterns in the cedar bogs,
Tail gone whuppa-whuppa under the keel,
Made my kidneys play a drum-n-bass reel.

Back on the tiller my hands went slack,
Heart crawled out an’ climbed my back,
Teeth chattered time like a telegraph wire,
Cold sweat smokin’ like a charcoal fire.

(CAMPERS:)
Humps like logs and eyes like fire,
Jack’s poor nerves on the auction wire,
Zappity-zip his story grows,
By the time he’s done, he’s eat his own toes.

Each time, bigger, his tale returns,
Add three humps an’ two more turns,
Jack starts talkin’ soft an’ slow,
End o’ the night, it’s a travelling show.

(JACK DAVIS:)
Now I hail that serpent, “Hey there, friend,”
Voice come back from the foggy bend,
Not a word, just a bubble groan,
Sound like the lake chewin’ up a stone.

I says to myself, “Jack, don’t blink,”
Brain starts squeezin’ like it’s full o’ drink,
Boat do a shimmy, line goes slack,
Whole Upper Lake tryin’ t’ climb my back.

(CAMPERS:)
Jack talks friendly t’ the long wet doom,
Holdin’ court in the cattail gloom,
Ask the monster, “How you do?”
Monster answers, “Boo-hoo-boo.”

Oh Jack, oh Jack, yer mouth runs free,
You’d bargain with a drownin’ tree,
You’d sell us all for a better view,
An’ charge admission fer drownin’ too.

(JACK DAVIS:)
Now I swear on my tackle, I ain’t no liar,
But that critter was bigger’n the hotel fire,
Big like a lumber bill, tall like a sin,
If it takes one more verse, I’ll grow a fin.

Big like taxes in a bad mill year,
Big like a sermon full o’ fear,
Big like the bill at the Indian Point bar,
Big like the gap ’tween truth an’ yarn so far.

(CAMPERS:)
Jack swears, Jack swears, hand on reel,
Oath so heavy that the hook might peel,
If he piles one more “big” on that heap,
The Lake’ll fine him fer lack o’ sleep.

Jack saw somethin’, or somethin’ saw Jack,
Truth went forward, then moonwalked back,
Write it down neat in the Record sheet,
Make the “monster” fit in twelve-point neat.

Print it tidy with a printer’s grace,
Shrink that serpent t’ column space,
Clip it, save it, pass it ’round,
Monster now weighs half a pound.

(JACK DAVIS:)
When I hit shore, I’s white as chalk,
Boots forgot how t’ plain old walk,
Tongue got tangled in the word “snake,”
Came out “s’-s’-s’-s’-sea mistake.”

Told Dick Shutts, he near dropped dead,
Then charged me double fer a guide and bed,
Said, “Jack, my boy, you’ve seen the proof—
Now let’s build rumor on a brand-new roof.”

(CAMPERS:)
Hear him, boys, hear him, girls,
See the tale grow antlers an’ curls,
Jack brings fear like a homemade pie,
Everybody wants just one more slice o’ lie.

(JACK DAVIS:)
Laugh all ye want, but when dusk comes down,
An’ the lake puts on that funeral gown,
You’ll hear somethin’ roll where the humps once rose,
An’ you’ll wish you’d packed an extra dose o’ clothes.

(CAMPERS:)
We’ll laugh, Jack, sure, till the lanterns dim,
Then every last one learns how t’ swim,
’Cause when the fog sneaks up like a borrowed coat,
Every log looks bigger’n the boat.

ELLOWS BAY BOOGIE – “WE ALL SEEN IT”

ANDREW BAKER:
Wal I’s down Bellows Bay wetting my line,
Thought I’d hook supper, maybe hook nine,
Line went slack, boat went sway,
Up pops Moby What-the-Devil in the middle o’ the bay.

Sat there squintin’ through the skeeter fog,
Thought, “Lord, that’s too ambitious fer a log,”
Hump after hump like a freight-train wake,
Made my little skiff feel like a yard-sale flake.

I’d just tied on my lucky red spoon,
Planned t’ fry perch by supper-time soon,
Next thing I know, my bobber took flight,
Looked like the lake tried t’ swallow the light.

I hollers, “Will! Git yer carcass here!”
Voice jumped an octave clear through my beer,
Paddle in one hand, cross in the other,
Wishin’ I’d listened t’ my Sunday mother.

WILL REYNOLDS
I says, “Andy, ye drunk, that’s a floating log,”
Then it snorted—log ain’t s’posed t’ fog,
Humps rollin’ over like a busted bridge,
Made me wanna move my camp off the ridge.

I laughed first off, just t’ keep my vote,
Till the “log” took a look at my second-hand boat,
Give me that eyeball big as a plate,
Like it’s checkin’ if I’m worth the freight.

I told him, “Son, ye hallucinate,”
Then the water rose up like it changed its fate,
Boat went bob like a cork in gin,
I near promised the Lord I’d knock off sin.

You ever see cedar just get out o’ the way?
That shoreline did when it rolled our way,
Trees leanin’ back like, “Nope, not me,”
Even the stump had somewhere t’ be.

L. D. MORRISON:
I’m a peaceable feller, don’t spook too quick,
But my pipe went out an’ my stomach got sick,
Fish quit bitin’, wind quit talkin’,
Whole darn lake said, “Better keep walkin’.”

I ain’t the type t’ jump at a splash,
Spent forty winters haulin’ trash,
Seen ice crack, heard panthers scream,
But this here thing weren’t no campfire dream.

One minute I’m thinkin’ on bait and rent,
Next minute water’s all malevolent,
Quiet like school when the teacher glares,
Whole bay swallowed its own affairs.

When my pipe goes cold on a calm fine day,
That means the world done shifted its way,
I tamped it twice an’ the match went dead,
Like the lake said, “No flame, just dread.”

ANDREW BAKER:
I seen three humps, maybe I seen four,
Every time I counted there was one hump more,
Back rose up like an old stone fence,
With a smell o’ sump pump and frankincense.

WILL REYNOLDS:
I seen its tail slap just once, by gar,
Kicked a loon halfway t’ Saint-Laurent star,
Bird did a cartwheel, squawked in French,
Signed up for land-life on the closest bench.

L. D. MORRISON:
I seen the color—green-black bruise,
Like the whole Champlain come payin’ its dues,
Not shiny like trout, not muddy like pike,
Looked like a rumor that learned t’ strike.

(TRIO (ANDY, WILL, MORRISON):)
We all seen it, don’t you scoff,
If you says “log,” we’ll punch ye off,
Call it serpent, eel, or elongated cow,
Whatever it was, it’s in the bay now.

We all seen it, three sets o’ eyes,
Can’t all be victims o’ the same beeg lies,
You can blame the drink or the noonday glare,
But explain why the fish climbed outta the air.

We all seen it, we’ll sign our name,
Right under “Witness, Slightly Insane,”
Print it in ink in the Record sheet,
Spell “terrific” with an extra heat.

We all seen it, honest and plain,
Heard the water hummin’ like a busted train,
If our story grows one extra scale,
That’s just local tax on a traveling tale.

(LAKE CHORUS (LAPPING WATER VOICES):)
Glub-glub, gulp-gulp, suckers in a swirl,
Rumor got a backbone, rumor gonna curl,
Every man’s “I seen it” grows another scale,
By the time it hits town, it’s a dragon in the mail.

Slap-slap, hush-hush, ripples on the side,
Truth takes a paddle an’ goes fer a ride,
Starts as a shadow by Bellows Bay,
Shows up in Boston as Judgment Day.

Swish-swish, shh-shh, secrets in the reeds,
Lake writes novels outta fishin’ deeds,
One little wiggle in the Monday mist,
Turns into “Leviathan, Locally Missed.”

Glub-glub, gulp-gulp, listen close, son,
This how legends get their run,
Three half-sober fellers, one long shape,
Next thing ye know, it’s escaped from cape t’ cape.

(LAKE & TRIO TOGETHER:)
We all seen it, that’s our claim,
Bay took normal an’ forgot its name,
Whether beast, log, or a bad idea,
It’s Bellows Bay’s now—signed,
Upper Chateaugay Lake, New York, U.S.A.

THE SOCIETY FOR SELF-CULTURE – “PHYLLOSOPHY RAG”

SELF-CULTURE LADIES:
We are the Socratic sisters’ club,
Xantippe’s darlins at the Upper Lake hub,
Work on deportment, personal grace,
Till a sea serpent slap us in the face.

LEAD LADY:
We practice posture in the hotel yard,
Balancin’ teacups, thinkin’ hard,
“Know thyself,” Plato said in Greek,
We just try not t’ spill iced tea on our cheek.

LADIES:
We are refined, we are sublime,
We conjugate verbs while we’re wastin’ time,
But that big ol’ snake in the local creek
Done knocked the starch outta our antique chic.

LEAD LADY:
We studied the soul an’ the moral squirm,
Now we’re studyin’ something with a dorsal firm,
Turns out Nature never read our book,
She just sends a critter t’ take a look.

LADIES:
O day an’ night, ain’t it some disgrace,
Monsters crashin’ our tea-time space,
“More things in heaven,” so Hamlet said,
We just wanted posture, got a snake instead.

MISS PRUDENCE:
Wal I come up here t’ improve my mind,
Leave all the coarse male world behind,
Bought me a handbook on “Social Poise,”
Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout lake-long noise.
Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout green-scaled doom,
Stickin’ his neck in the ladies’ room,
Didn’t list “serpent” on the proper chart
Next t’ “laugh soft,” “sit straight,” “guard yer heart.”

LADIES:
We got a rulebook thick as stew,
Tellin’ us what not t’ ever do,
How t’ sip, how t’ blush, how t’ cross our legs,
How t’ peel gossip like pickled eggs;
But there ain’t one page in the whole beeg stack
’Bout what t’ do when the deep stares back,
When the lake says “boo” with a dorsal fin
An’ the whole front porch about caves in.

LEAD LADY:
Our course this week: “How t’ Enter a Room,
Scatterin’ charm like apple bloom,”
We practiced smilin’ with measured grace,
Palms just so, no wrinkles in the face;
Then up from the bay come a serpent wake,
Turned every drilled curtsy into a double-take,
We all “enter the room” right under the chair,
Practisin’ “scream softly” in the mountain air.

(OLD MISS AURELIA:)
Now girls, remember the doctrin’ plain:
“Control yer thoughts, control yer brain,”
Picture a lily, picture the moon,
Picture the gentlemen faintin’ in June;
But when a neck like a stovepipe crests the foam,
All them lilies pack up an’ head for home,
My thoughts went skippin’ like a skipped throwed stone.

(LADIES:)
We took up Logic on rainy nights,
Diagrammin’ arguments ’stead o’ fights,
“Premise, premise, therefore thus,”
Neat lil’ arrows all pointin’ t’ us;
Now our syllogism’s out t’ sea:
“If serpents swim where picnics be,
Then reason’s towel is good an’ wet,
An’ we ain’t quite dried it off yet.”

(LEAD LADY:)
We keep a ledger o’ faults we fight,
“Talk too loud” an’ “bite when slight,”
“Roll our eyes” an’ “forget our gloves,”
Secretly harborin’ scandalous loves;
Add a line in the margin ink,
“Jumps too high when monsters blink,
Fails t’ maintain a collected air
When the lake invents a dragon there.”

(CHORUS OF LOCAL LADIES:)
Wal, folks, ye laugh at our dainty fuss,
But the whole wide world been learnin’ like us:
Stackin’ up rules like stovewood high,
Buildin’ a ladder that don’t reach sky.
When the water heaves an’ the old truths tilt,
Our etiquette quivers like custard guilt,
All them “don’ts” an’ “do’s” in a careful row
Get washed down-camp by a freshet flow.

(LEAD LADY:)
Maybe “self-culture” ain’t all curls an’ lace,
Maybe it means lookin’ terror in the face,
Admittin’ the lake got chapters we missed,
Whole beeg volumes in the evening mist.
Maybe the soul ain’t a parlor floor,
Maybe it’s mud track, beast roar, splintered oar,
An’ what we call “virtue” in our Sunday best
Is just not havin’ met the real test.

(LADIES:)
O day an’ night, whatever we be,
We’re still them girls on the porch by the sea
Well, lake, but “sea” got a nicer ring
Tryin’ t’ make manners do somethin’ king.
We raise our cups t’ the unknown critter,
Toast t’ the shiver, the scatter, the jitter,
More things in heaven than our books have said,
We just wanted posture… got the deep instead.

JOHNNY GOODRICH PATTER – “METAFIZZICAL SUCKERS”

JOHNNY GOODRICH:
Name’s Johnny from UVM,
Got a brain like a thunderin’ sawmill cam,
Took a class in Metaphizzics One,
Now I diagnose the lake fer fun.
If God is dead and the parties lie,
Maybe the answers float where the loons fly.

CHORUS:
Met-a-fizz, met-a-fuzz, met-a-fizzle-pop,
Johnny got a theory that’ll never stop,
Talk real fast till the fish turn pale,
Tie that serpent to a campaign trail.
Met-a-fact, met-a-fake, met-a-fancy word,
Say it with a flourish till it sounds half heard,
If the creek runs clear but the logic’s mud,
Blame it on a serpent in the party blood.

JOHNNY:
Once I lectured on Democracy’s rot,
Warmed up the hall till the coffee got hot,
Told ’em every platform’s built on sand,
Held together with a handshake an’ a second-hand band.
Now I’m sayin’ here with excessive clarity,
This snake is a symptom o’ party polarity.
Left bank, right bank, shoutin’ across the foam,
Serpent’s just districtin’ his watery home.

CHORUS:
Sure it is, sure it is, blame the vote,
Put a filibuster ’round the boat,
Every long critter in a mountain pond,
Is a metaphor wearin’ a dorsal wand.
Gerrymandered ripples on a backwoods tide,
All the little minnows gotta pick a side,
When the wake rolls in like a log-rolled bill,
You either sink polite or holler fit to kill.

JOHNNY:
See, politics is easy if ye watch the bait,
Somebody’s always hollerin’, “Country great!”
Somebody else mutters, “Tear it all down,”
Like the serpent’s mayor o’ the nearest town.
Look ye close at them myriads o’ sucker fish,
Epistemological buffet on a nightstand dish,
Each one nibblin’ on a different “fact,”
Swappin’ little rumors like a social pact.

They swarm like thoughts in a party whine,
All look the same but they chew yer line.
One bites left, one bites right,
You fling out truth like a nightcrawler string,
They come splattin’ in with a belly-flop swing,
’Cause belief ain’t hooked by the sharp or the fine,
It’s hooked by the story at the end o’ the line.

CHORUS:
Met-a-fizz, met-a-fuzz, Johnny’s on a roll,
Tie Lake Champlain t’ the human soul,
He’s got a big concept, skinny on proof,
Sea serpent livin’ in a leaky roof.
Blame the cave, blame the ford, blame the voting ward,
Blame an obsolete philosophical lord,
If ye can’t find cause in the mud an’ rain,
Just slap it on a monster in the upper chain.

JOHNNY:
Kant had a “Thing” ye couldn’t quite know,
Filed it in the attic where the dust motes glow.
Plato had a Cave full o’ puppet-show flame,
We got a boathouse lamp doin’ much the same.
One feller stares at a shadow on the foam,
Next morn it’s “Great Serpent Threatens Our Home.”
I apply my learnin’ like a rusty wrench,
Turn every sightin’ into social stench.

Say the serpent is Fear o’ the Unknown Change,
Class anxiety with a dorsal range.
Maybe he’s just what the mind invents
When the fog gets thick and the rent makes dents.

JOHNNY:
Wal, maybe I do run my mouth too hard,
But ignorance blooms in a tidy yard.
Folks say “Hoax!” or folks say “Sign!”
I say, “Pass the notebook, lemme draw a line.”
On this side: critter, scales, an’ muck,
On that side: panic, gin, an’ luck.
Where they overlap, in the middle o’ the wakes,
That’s where Metaphizzics cooks its cakes.

’Cause the mind loves monsters like kids love pie,
Gives shape t’ the shiver in the corner o’ the eye.
You can measure the depth, you can chart the shore,
But the stories make the lake ten miles more.
So I’ll keep spoutin’ till the ice comes on,
Till the serpent migrates or the voters are gone,
An’ when they ask “Johnny, what’d ye finally deduce?”
I’ll say, “The Truth is a slippery, scaly excuse.”

CHORUS:
Met-a-fizz, met-a-fuzz, met-a-fizzle-pop,
Johnny got a theory but he can’t quite stop,
Tie that serpent t’ whatever’s on sale,
From a busted pier t’ the county jail.
Met-a-fact, met-a-fear, met-a-fancy name,
Lake stays lake, but we ain’t the same.
If ye want the verdict on what folks saw,
It’s a long dark wiggle in the common law.

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Act II.

THE SUCKER HIGHWAY

OLD VERITAS SONG – “I SWEAR BY THE NARROWS”

OLD VERITAS (EUGENE MILLER):
They call me Old Veritas down t’ Abner’s store,
Got more stories than the forge had ore,
I says, “Boys, listen, don’t laugh in my face,
That serpent been all over this place.
Seen more winters than the plank road dust,
Seen preachers rust and steamers bust.

GUIDES’ CHORUS:
Tell it, Gene, lay it out straight,
Truth kinda crooked but it still tastes great,
Ver-i-tas, Ver-i-tas, sing it rough,
Ain’t no yarn till Gene says, “’Nuff.”

OLD VERITAS:
Seen him up the Narrows by DeChambeau’s dock,
Scarin’ whitecaps off o’ the rock,
Long green whisper in the mornin’ haze,
Give a sober man carnival ways.
Head like a keg with them yellow eyes,
Tail drawin’ doodles in the sunrise skies.
He slid along quiet as a sneakin’ vote,
But the Narrows bristled under my boat,
Water went shiver right over my oar,
Like the lake remembered somethin’ from the year before.

GUIDES:
By DeChambeau’s, down the slot,
Where the boats go whoosh an’ the beer gets hot,
If Gene says “serpent,” we’ll sign the sheet,
Stamp it “Official” with our muddy feet.
We don’t need no city clerk in a tie,
We notarize truth with a squint o’ the eye,
Narrows is the courthouse, lake is home.

OLD VERITAS:
Had him once dead-center in my spyglass tube,
Thought it was lumber till it turned its head,
An’ my breakfast tried marchin’ off o’ the sled.
Boat rocked sideways, pipe near fell,
I says, “Well, boys, there’s your Sunday hell,”
Didn’t holler “Monster,” didn’t holler “Run,”
Just muttered, “Huh. That ain’t no log, son.”
I ain’t sayin’ what he is, just that he be,
You can hang yer “phylosophy” out on a tree,
We weigh truth here in bass an’ trout,
If the guides all nod, the jury’s out.
If a drunk sees one, we call that fog,
If three sober guides all nix “log,”
We chalk that up as a local fact,
Print it in the Record an’ let it act.

GUIDES:
I swear by the Narrows, I swear by the ore,
By the busted kilns an’ the company store,
By a long lost vein o’ Lyon gold,
If Gene says “monster,” the case is sold.
Swear by a skiff in a November sleet,
By wet wool socks on a two-day beat,
By the last dry match in a sideways rain,
If Gene says “seen it,” we don’t explain.

OLD VERITAS:
Had a book man come from the city last fall,
Little soft boots, big note-pad, that’s all,
He says, “Sir, truth’s what the footnotes say,”
I says, “Truth’s what don’t wash off in the bay.”
You write yer essays, drink yer ink,
We drag them waters till the anchors clink,
That’ll beat ten sermons on a college hedge.
I never studied Plato, barely passed first grade,
But I know what rises when the wind gets played,
There’s things in that channel ain’t on no chart,
But they lean on my hull like a guilty heart.

GUIDES’ CHORUS:
Go on, Gene, twist the knife a mite,
Cut them fancy notions down t’ size tonight,
Ver-i-tas, Ver-i-tas, speak yer creed,
Lakefront gospel for the work-boot breed.
If the scholars scoff, let ’em scoff all day,
Their oars don’t bite like the ones we play,
We spell “metaphysics” with a question mark,
Draw our diagrams in the Narrows dark.

OLD VERITAS:
So if ye ask me, “Gene, is he real?”
I’ll answer plain as a spokeshave peel:
I seen what I seen, an’ the lake seen more,
An’ both of us older than the company store.
If he’s dream or dragon, I don’t much care,
Long as he minds his manners out there,
But when that back breaks through the morning steam,
You’ll hear the Narrows hum like a cracked church beam.

FULL GUIDES’ CHORUS:
We swear by the Narrows, we swear by the ore,
By the ghost o’ the boom-chain draggin’ the shore,
If Gene says “monster,” the ink runs bold.
We swear by the frost on the cabin pane,
By the thaw-time flood in the East Inlet drain,
If Gene says “serpent,” it’s in our blood.
I swear by the Narrows, I swear by the ore,
By the busted kilns an’ the company store,
By a long lost vein o’ Lyon gold,
If Gene says “monster,” the case is sold.

DICK SHUTTS & THE SUCKER CANAL – “SUCKERFALL EXPRESS”

DICK SHUTTS:
Name’s Dick Shutts, Indian Point boss,
Know every beaver that’s ever got lost,
If ye ask me how that serpent came,
I got me a theory with a railroad name.

CHORUS OF GUIDES (GEO COOK, JIM SMITH, OTHERS):
Suckerfall Express, whoo-whoo-whee,
Fish ridin’ uphill like it’s all gravy,
From Champlain’s depths t’ Bradley Pond,
Serpent thumbin’ rides in the great beyond.

DICK:
See them suckers? Myriads, son,
More fish here than a priest got fun,
They ain’t just show up outta local mud,
They’re runnin’ a canal in a sucker flood.

Spring freshet hits like a drunk in church,
Every ditch foamin’, every root on a perch,
Suckers climb dikes like they got paid,
Like the Lord hisself runnin’ a fish parade.

CHORUS OF GUIDES:
Watch ’em wiggle in the culvert throat,
Tax-free cargo in a scaleskin coat,
One-way ticket t’ the Upper Lake show,
Nobody checkin’ what’s lurkin’ below.

GEO COOK:
Bradley Pond’s the depot, East Inlet the track,
Fish all slippin’ in a salmon pack,
From the Chazy River up, then down,
Stoppin’ in the lake t’ mess with town.

I seen ’em stacked like cordwood scales,
Flashin’ like nickels in the alder trails,
Whole stream clappin’ in a silver roar,
Made a poor guide rich in local lore.

JIM SMITH:
If a fish can come, then a snake can, too,
Just needs a tunnel an’ a bad idea or two,
Underground, underwater, round the bend,
Jules Verne laughin’ in a French accent.

Picture it, boys, little French hat on his head,
Scribblin’ “Chateaugay” by a candle bed,
Drawin’ a line where the waters shake,
Stampin’ “approved” on our lake.

CHORUS:
Suckerfall Express, whoo-whoo-whee,
Eco-log-i-cal lunacy,
If the map says “no,” but Dick says “yes,”
We reprint the map in the Chateaugay Press.

DICK:
Now some say the cut ain’t near that wide,
Serpent couldn’t make the upstream ride,
Wal maybe there’s fissures that the preacher missed,
Whole lake honeycombed like a government list.

You got cracks in the bedrock, cracks in the dam,
Cracks in the story an’ the town program,
Cracks in the budget the board went through,
Why not a crack with a serpent, too?

SKEPTIC FROM TOWN:
Now hold on, Dick, that’s awful slick,
Sounds like whiskey doin’ the arithmetic,
You expect me t’ swallow a snaky train,
Crawlin’ through marble like a gravy stain?

DICK:
Wal you swallow taxes, don’t ye, friend?
An’ them got less proof than the serpent bend,
At least my monster leaves a decent wave,
Your assessor just digs a deeper grave.

GUIDES:
Oho, he got ye, plain as day,
Sit back down, put yer book away,
Up here “plausible” means “could be fun,”
An’ “can’t be done” means “ain’t yet done.”

DICK:
Picture a tunnel in the Lyon stone,
Where the water sings in a toothy tone,
Serpent hears that secret drum,
Says, “Champlain’s dull, I’ll try downstream some.”

CHORUS OF GUIDES:
Come on through, big feller, squeeze that spine,
Trim them ribs like a telegraph line,
If the stalactites scratch yer hide,
Call it a user fee for the other side.

DICK:
He pops out yonder in the East Inlet spray,
Blinkin’ at the birches like “where am I, eh?”
Tastes our suckers, tastes our boats,
Leaves a long opinion in the rippled notes.

CHORUS:
Suckerfall Express, we love that view,
Science on molasses, rumor on brew,
Build yer canal in the public head,
Next thing ye know, the monster’s fed.

First it’s “maybe,” then it’s “sure,”
Then it’s “I seen it from my front door,”
By the time the summer people go,
That snake’s got business cards in tow.

DICK:
So write it down neat in the Record sheet,
Put the tracks right under the reader’s feet,
If they don’t see water beneath their chair,
They ain’t from here—they’re just breathin’ our air.

FULL COMPANY:
Suckerfall Express, whoo-whoo-whee,
From Bradley Pond t’ mythology,
If ye doubt the route or deny the rail,
We’ll just dig one deeper in the local tale.

NAT COLLINS’ TROGLODYTE CANTATA – “CAVE MAN, LAKE MAN”

NAT COLLINS:
They call me a trog-lo-dyte,
’Cause I like caves better’n daylight,
Found more holes in these hills, by gar,
Than stars stuck up in the evening jar.

CAVE ECHO CHORUS:
Cave man, lake man, Nat knows stone,
Walks underground like it’s telephone,
Talkin’ t’ the fissures, hummin’ t’ the rift,
Maps out the dark where the waters drift.

NAT:
One time I stumbled on a cavern so wide,
Kentucky Mammoth felt small inside,
Got a grotto prettier’n Calypso’s lair,
But the tourists balked at the lack o’ air.

CHORUS:
Nat says the lakes are all plugged together,
Subterranean rivers changin’ the weather,
From Perpignan France t’ Upper Chateaugay,
Water sneaks around the honest day.

NAT:
If Champlain got a serpent, an’ we got a hole,
Why can’t he commute like a trolley-pole?
He just slides on in where the ledges split,
Punches his time card an’ that’s ’bout it.

CHORUS:
Cave man, lake man, crazy or wise,
You decide when the snake arise,
Maybe it’s geology, maybe it’s gin,
Maybe Nat just fell too far in.

NAT:
Laugh if ye want, but mark my word,
Ground got secrets like a guilty bird,
You can doubt my tunnels till the cows come yodel,
But every spring the lake hums modal.

---

Act III.

We Throw Down the Gauntlent

SKEPTICS’ QUADRILLE – “HOAX, HOAX, HOAX”

SKEPTICS:
Hoax, hoax, hoax, we vote,
Just a long shadow off somebody’s boat,
Tall tale, tall tale, guide’s reward,
Charge five dollars fer a monster tour.

FIRST SKEPTIC:
Them witnesses, bless ’em, drunk on lore,
See a muskrat, call it “ancient war,”
Every wave gets a brand-new spine,
Every fog bank’s a “serpent sign.”

SECOND SKEPTIC:
You got Xantippe, Hamlet, Socrates’ ghost,
Fish by the millions on the Baptist coast,
UVM talk an’ cave-man brag,
Sound like a newspaper tryin’ t’ sell a rag.

SKEPTICS:
Hoax, hoax, pure bunkum stew,
Lake don’t owe you nothin’ new,
If there’s a serpent, we’ll eat our hat,
Till then we ain’t buyin’ that.

THIRD SKEPTIC:
Wal now, listen, I been here years,
Seen more campfire-fed frontiers fears
Than blackflies chewin’ on a ranger’s neck,
Every one “true” till payday check.
They see two ducks in a lover’s clinch,
Next week it’s a monster, inch by inch.
Some lady screams at a startled loon,
Paper makes it “TEETH LIKE THE MOON.”

FOURTH SKEPTIC:
Last July it was a ghost canoe,
Paddlin’ itself like a dream came true,
Turned out, boys, when the sun come up,
Just a drunk guide’s boat, half full o’ pup.
You give these folks a stump in fog,
They’ll swear on Scripture it’s no log,
They want their trip with a side o’ dread,
Else they feel cheated tuckin’ in bed.

FIRST SKEPTIC:
They haul up quotes from the Bard o’ yore,
Dress up nonsense in Shakespeare gore,
Sprinkle in “more things,” “heaven and earth,”
To inflate a fish tale’s net worth.
Say “phylosophy” with an extra “h,”
Like a fancy hook in a muddy crick swale,
Catch a Boston feller by his tender pride,
Tell him the cosmos took a boat ride.

SECOND SKEPTIC:
They got Ancient Greece, they got UVM,
Nat Collins’ cave, Veritas’ hem,
Jules Verne’s Nautilus drillin’ through,
All them book names just cow manure stew.
Every long word’s just window trim,
On a camp-store shack built lean and grim,
They nail big notions to a pine-board joke,
Call it “deep thought,” but it smells like smoke.

THIRD SKEPTIC:
I says, “Show me tracks on the muddy shore,
Show me a sucker what’s been et, not four,
Show me a boat split clean in half,
Not jus’ Jack Davis’ nervous laugh.”
They hand me clippin’s from ‘Champlain days,’
A blurry lump in the August haze,
You tilt it left, it’s a hunk o’ bluet,
Tilt it right, it’s somebody’s rowboat skeg.

FOURTH SKEPTIC:
Lake Champlain got its own big eel,
Press down there spin it like a wagon wheel,
Now we gotta franchise in Chateaugay,
Copycat cryptid, same old play.
Logo’s different, story’s the same,
Tourist dollars in a brand-new frame,
Change the lake name, keep the beast,
Serve it up hot at the sporting priest.

SKEPTICS:
Hoax, hoax, we declare,
Monster’s mostly mountain air,
Wind on the water, log in the fog,
Upgraded nightly t’ “prehistoric dog.”
Hoax, hoax, mark it clear,
What they call “wonder” we call “beer,”
Add in Latin, stir in Greek,
Sell it by the yard at a buck a week.

OLD-TIMER SKEPTIC:
Back in my day, boy, we had sense,
Didn’t need monsters t’ pay expenses,
We scared city folks with black bear prints,
Not some long-necked fever that comes an’ sprints.
You’d hear a branch snap, feel a panther eye,
That’s real dread settin’ in yer thigh,
Now they want highbrow tentacle wit,
So the college kids feel smart bein’ bit.

SKEPTICS:
Hoax, hoax, hoax, we laugh,
Every fresh sightin’s just Telegraph chaff,
Ink on newsprint, pennies in till,
Truth on a string like a fish on a grill.
Hoax, hoax, stamp it red,
“Based on somethin’ someone said,”
Quote it thrice, it turns to granite,
Soon you got a monster planet.

SCIENCE SKEPTIC:
I seen the “evidence,” bless its heart,
Looks like doodles on a bait-shop chart,
“Observed at dusk by four, no five,”
All recall slightly more alive.
One says “green,” one says “blue,”
One says “forked tail,” one says “two,”
Ask how long, you get a picket fence,
Ask how close, they grow real tense.

PHILOSOPHY SKEPTIC:
They holler “mystery” when the math don’t land,
Call it “wonder” when they’ve lost the stand,
If the facts won’t stack, they bend ‘em round,
Build a sermon on some splashy sound.
There’s more in heaven than we can chart?
Sure there is, but bless yer heart,
That don’t mean each ripple in yer pail,
Is the Leviathan snappin’ at yer bail.

SKEPTICS:
Hoax, hoax, pure bunkum stew,
Lake don’t owe you nothin’ new,
If there’s a serpent, we’ll eat our hat,
Boil it in coffee, chew on the fat.
Till we see backbone, teeth, an’ trail,
Somethin’ bigger than a pickerel fail,
We’ll raise our mugs an’ that is that:
“Nice tall story, but we ain’t buyin’ that.”

EAST BELLMONT FINALE – “CHALLENGE FROM THE HINTERLANDS”

NARRATOR:
Wal I heard all sides till my ears got sore,
From the tea-time ladies t’ the guide-house door,
From college boy Johnny t’ Old Veritas,
An’ I still don’t know what the critter was.

I heard it long, I heard it loud,
Heard it whispered holy, shouted proud,
Heard it over beans, over pie, over gin,
Same old story with a different grin.

Some say “dragon,” some say “eel,”
Some say “Jack’s home-brewed ideal,”
Some say “Nature,” some say “sign,”
Some say, “Naw, it’s just the brine.”

TEA-TIME LADIES:
We saw ripples in our teaspoons turn,
Little rings o’ etiquette crash an’ burn,
When the lake blinked back at our fresh starch collars,
We near spilled truth in the sugar dollars.

GUIDES:
We seen wakes where no boat be,
Lines go slack like a broken decree,
We ain’t sayin’ what lives down there,
We just sell bait an’ rent despair.

CHORUS OF EVERYBODY:
But we got tales, we got proof,
Printed in type under leaky roof,
From Upper Lake clear t’ Botany Bay,
We got somethin’ odd in Chateaugay.

We got affidavits on grocery bags,
We got sworn oaths on borrowed rags,
We got testimony on a barroom slate,
Signed “X” by a man who can’t spell “fate.”

We got sketches on birch-bark, maps in dust,
Fish-scale diagrams if ye really must,
We got a ledger in the hotel hall,
Reads “Seen somethin’” in twenty hands all.

NARRATOR:
If there’s a serpent in Lake Champlain,
Why can’t his cousin run this train?
Same wet work, same northern sky,
Same old people tryin’ not t’ die o’ pie.

Same damp socks on the porch rail froze,
Same blackflies gnawin’ on yer nose,
Same rain that falls on Burlington suits,
Falls on our patched-up Sunday boots.

If Champ can wiggle fer city folk’s thrills,
Why can’t our snake climb our own hills?
If they get postcards, statues, lore,
We’ll take one monster, maybe four.

CHORUS:
We throw down the gauntlet, slap that deck,
Call every old salt with a crooked neck,
All fresh-water captains from near an’ far,
Come measure our nonsense against yer bar.

Bring yer yacht-club burgee, yer stiff-lip squint,
Bring yer brass compass with the fancy mint,
Bring yer charts with Latin names,
We’ll bring mud, mosquitoes, games.

We throw down the gauntlet, clang it twice,
Challenge yer logic, raise yer price,
If our story’s wild in yer city view,
Come tame the lake—see what tames you.

SKEPTICS:
We’ll poke holes in every wave,
Fact by fact like a righteous knave,
We’ll measure humps with a survey chain,
Prove it’s just weather an’ a guilty brain.

GUIDES:
You measure, we’ll grin, you chart, we’ll shrug,
Truth in these woods wears a different rug,
You bring “evidence,” we bring stew,
See which one the night believes is true.

NARRATOR:
Bring yer charts, bring yer spyglass stick,
Bring yer loud opinions an’ yer smart-city slick,
We’ll set ye in a skiff at dawn’s first yawn,
See what’s wigglin’ when the mist comes on.

Bring yer notebook, fancy pen,
Write “hypothesis” once, then lose it again,
When the loons start laughin’ in Latin tones,
An’ the bullfrogs drum on submerged bones.

We’ll shove ya off from the gravelly shore,
No motor, no lantern, nothin’ more,
Just you, the fog, the long gray swell,
An’ whatever remembers how t’ spell “hell.”

CHILDREN:
We’ll sit on the dock with our toes pulled high,
Countin’ the bumps that wander by,
We ain’t scared, we just pretend,
’Cause bein’ scared sells more at the end.

FULL COMPANY:
More things in heaven, more things below,
Than a city boy’s brain got room t’ know,
If it’s hoax or horror, log or beast,
We’ll still tell the story at the very least.

More things in mud, more things in rain,
Than fits inside a commuter train,
If it’s fog or fable, fin or fib,
We’ll still hum the tune ’til the floorboards jib.

If it’s just a stump with an attitude,
If it’s Jack’s reflection in a bad mood,
If it’s Champ on vacation, changin’ zip,
We’ll still pass the hat on the evening trip.

NARRATOR:
So write it down, Mister Editor man,
In the Record sheet as best ye can,
Say “We ain’t sure, but we kinda hope,”
There’s a sea serpent laughin’ at our microscope.

Say, “They argued hard in East Bellmont,
Half want proof, half just want want,
But all agree by close o’ day,
They like their truth with a little gray.”

Put in the date, spell names half right,
Let the typos crawl like bugs at night,
Print it crooked if the press runs lame,
Crooked’s how the story came.

FULL COMPANY:
Chateaugay Lake, where the suckers swarm,
Where the guides tell lies just t’ keep ye warm,
Where a long dark shadow in the mornin’ sun
Is a monster, a log, an’ a punchline—
All rolled into one.

Where the tea gets cold an’ the rumors cook,
Where the preacher side-eyes the bait-shop book,
Where the law can’t fine what the lake can hide,
An’ the truth wears flannel on the hidden side.

So if ye come huntin’ fer pure, clean fact,
You’ll get mud on yer boots an’ that’s the pact,
’Cause out here, neighbor, when the tale’s begun,
We’re all sea serpents, rolled into one.